


Before I Even Knew What Love Meant

by ArgentLives



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentLives/pseuds/ArgentLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from Barry and Iris's relationship growing up and all those times that he really wanted to tell her, that he tried to tell her, and the one where he finally did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before I Even Knew What Love Meant

**Author's Note:**

> Westallen fluff-ish stuff because these two are destroying me.

Barry Allen is seven years old when his love for Iris really begins to blossom. Of course, at the time, he doesn’t know that that’s what it is he’s feeling. Doesn’t even really know what love is yet, doesn’t fully understand the word—his mom and dad say it to him all the time, with all the _‘I love you’s’_ and _‘Sweet dreams’_ before they tuck him into bed every night, and he says it back, thinks he might have some sort of grasp on it.

But this is different, this is unfamiliar, and this isn’t the kind of feeling he gets when his mom places a kiss on his forehead or his dad affectionately ruffles his hair. He doesn’t know it yet, won’t really know or completely understand for a while that what he’s feeling for Iris is a different kind of love, that it’s not just that he loves her but that he’s _in love_ with her.

At seven years old, what he does know is that every time Iris smiles at him, every time she holds his hand or giggles at something he says or defends him in front of a bully, he gets this funny feeling in his chest and his brain goes all fuzzy and he feels warm and light and giddy.

At seven years old, he already thinks that Iris is the most beautiful person that he’s ever seen, and he’s already in awe of every aspect of her—her smile, her laugh, her bright eyes, her strength, her confidence, her intensity.

At seven years old, he already wants to spend the rest of his life by her side, because when he’s with Iris it’s like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day.

One day during school, not unlike most, they’re outside during recess, off in their own little world, and Barry is pushing Iris on the swings— back and forth and back and forth and back and forth—and he thinks that he’d be content to stay like this forever and ever. This comfortable, steady rhythm that belongs just to the two of them, that makes him feel whole and right and _happy_.

And suddenly he gets this strange urge to tell her how he feels, to tell her how she _makes_ him feel, to tell her that he would gladly let her steal all the cookies from his lunchbox and share his Hershey’s Chocolate bar with her on those special days where his mom packs it for him because he knows it’s her favorite, to tell her that her smile is like sunshine and that no matter what stupid Tony Woodward says, he doesn’t think that girls have cooties—at least he knows that she doesn’t—and that even if she did he’d still want to hold her hand.  

But he doesn’t have the words. Not yet. And so he just keeps pushing her on the swing—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, to the steady rhythm of his heart.

 

 

They’re twelve, and Barry’s just woken up from another nightmare, screaming and shaking. Before he can stop panicking long enough to see straight, before the images of the man in yellow and of his mother’s lifeless body have stop replaying themselves over and over and over in his mind, Iris is there by his side.

She’s got his hands in hers and she’s rubbing soothing circles into his palms, saying “Shhh, shhh— Bear, it was just a nightmare. You’re okay; I’m here. I’m here for you. Deep breaths, come on.”

Even shrouded in darkness, even with her hair all over the place and circles under her eyes and clad in her over-large pajamas, she’s still the most beautiful girl in the world to him.

And even when he’s overwhelmed with panic, even when the fear threatens to drown him and the memories of that night threaten to pull him under, he registers the warmth of her touch, the way it spreads from his hands to his heart to every fiber of his being. Her voice, not for the first time, brings him back, and he collapses into her shoulder.

She wraps her arms around him, holds him close and lets him break down in front of her, soothes the tremors running through his body as he cries. After a while, when he can finally breathe right again— in and out and in and out and in and out—he wraps his arms around her and hugs her back, and feels his heart speed up in response.

He wants to tell her then, how much she means to him, how much he cares about her, how he’d be more than happy to hold onto her like this and never let go. But all he can manage is a quiet ‘Thank you,’ and when he finally breaks their embrace, and she smiles at him, soft and sweet and caring and all _Iris_ , he has to remind himself to breathe again—in and out, in and out, in and out.

 

 

They’re fourteen, and it’s February. Which means that Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and their high school is doing its annual card-swap, the one where you can write a special Valentine’s Day message—for a friend, a significant other, a crush, etc., anonymously or otherwise—and send it to them along with flowers or candy of your choice.

Barry, who’s been forced to sit through enough sappy romance movies with Iris to last a lifetime, who would never admit it but secretly sits in the corner of the school library and reads up on romance novels and poetry in those rare moments when he’s not studying physics or chemistry textbooks, who’s actually probably the biggest hopeless romantic on the planet, knows a lot more about love now than he did when he was seven, or eleven, or twelve.

He knows enough about it to know that the way he loves Iris is much different than the way he loves Joe, or his dad, or his mom, when she was alive. He knows enough to know that he’s in love with her, has been for a long time, that every time he looks at her it’s like he’s staring into the sun and that when she smiles at him his legs get all weak and wobbly, and that he would gladly serenade her with every sappy love song and poem he’s ever come across because she deserves all that and more.

He also knows that he’s too afraid of what it might do to their friendship, too much of a coward, to tell her.

Which is why he’s proposed this brilliant idea, this plan to confess everything as her secret admirer, to write her a card that’ll pour his heart out, and afterward, after gauging her reaction, to tell her that he sent it—with candy, of course, not the flowers; he knows how strong Iris’s sweet tooth is.

He spends nearly an entire week of sleepless nights full of discarded drafts before he finally finds what he wants to say, before he finally has the right words, and it’s just in time for Valentine’s Day.

And then the next day at school he sees her with the boy she’s been talking to in their English class, and he’s got his hands around her waist and their lips are nearly touching, and it’s like someone’s ripped his heart out of his chest and pummeled it with a sledgehammer.

He almost considers going to the nurse, telling her he’s feeling nauseous (which wouldn’t really be a lie) and asking if he can leave school early. Instead he stays, just doesn’t send the card—he shoves it into his book bag as though it has personally offended him and heads off to class, and when he sees Iris later at lunch and she tells him with big smile that she’s just had her first kiss and that a boy in their class asked her out, he forces himself to smile and act excited even though he feels like he’s going to throw up.

He doesn’t know why, but he waits until he’s home to tear the card in two and throw away the remains, and for the rest of the night he doesn’t leave his room, claims that he has some big test he needs to study for.

Joe finds the card sticking out of the trash not long after—sighs sadly when he sees the _‘Dear Iris’_ and _‘Love, Barry’_ that only further confirms what he’s known for a long time. He gently picks up the pieces and brushes the discarded remains of Barry’s dinner from them, rummages through the drawers in the kitchen to find tape to put them back together again. He stows it away in his jacket pocket, making a mental note to keep it somewhere safe, to save it for the future.

Just in case.

 

 

He’s seventeen years old, and he really wasn’t planning on going to junior prom, but Iris won’t stand for him sulking at home alone for the night, and insists that they go together—as friends, of course, she adds with a laugh, as though the idea of anything else is ridiculous to her, incomprehensible, _laughable_ , and it kind of feels like a knife twisting in his gut.

But he says yes, of course, because he’s never really been able to say no to her, and he guesses he must be something of a masochist.

The big night finally comes, and he’s standing at the bottom of the steps with Joe—who’s got the camera at the ready—waiting for her, and just as he’s about to call up to her to tell her they’re going to be late if she doesn’t get her butt downstairs, there she is.

He thinks his heart might’ve stopped and his brain might be short-circuiting as she makes her way down the stairs, dark blue dress flowing behind her and perfectly hugging all her curves. She’s practically glowing and her smile is big and bright and _oh my God_ , it’s a miracle he doesn’t pass out right then and there.

“So, how do I look?” she asks, twirling for him as she reaches the bottom of the steps.

“You look…” _–beautiful, perfect, amazing, stunning, gorgeous, unbelievable, w-o-w—“…_ really nice.”

“Just _‘nice’_ —that’s all you’ve got? Dude, seriously?” Iris swats him on the arm and Joe laughs, and he knows his face is probably beet-red. Actually, he’s positive that it is, because in all of the pictures Joe takes after that of them that night he’s got this incessant head-to-toe blush going on.

He’s also got the biggest, goofiest smile on his face, and Joe has to re-take multiple photos because in over half of them, Barry’s not looking at the camera—he’s looking at Iris, like he can’t take his eyes off of her, and there’s this look of absolute awe in his expression that makes Joe wonder how on earth his daughter hasn’t notice anything yet.

When they get to the venue where the prom is being held, Barry barely has time to put his stuff down before Iris is tugging at his hands, pulling him towards the dance floor.

He groans, reminds Iris that in case she hasn’t forgotten from every disastrous West family gathering and other school parties, he _really_ can’t dance.

“That is no excuse, Barry Allen. It’s not that you _can’t_ dance, it’s just that, well, you’re not _good_ at it. But who cares! We’re here to have fun! Fuck what anyone else thinks, even if you do sort of look like a handicapped giraffe when you dance. Just pleaaaase do it, for me?”

Barry levels a glare at her, but then she juts out her bottom lip and bats her eyelashes and pouts, and his resolve instantly crumbles.

Sometime later the first slow song of the night starts playing, and he feels himself freeze, trying and failing to gather up the courage to ask her to dance. Turns out, he doesn’t have to, because she smirks at him with laughter dancing in her eyes and says, “Look, Bear, something you can actually dance to! All you have to do is move back and forth real slow.”

And before he can respond, she guides his hands to her waist and puts her hands on his shoulders and starts to sway, and he simultaneously tenses up and relaxes into her touch.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, of swaying back and forth and of being physically unable to keep a smile off his face, he starts to notice that a couple of guys are eyeing him angrily—almost as if their jealous—and it suddenly occurs to him that there’s no possible way that no one could have asked Iris to be their date to be their date to prom, as incredible as she is.

“Iris, exactly how many guys did you turn down to drag me along to this thing with you?”

“Oh, you know,” she waves her hand dismissively, trying to play it cool, but he can tell she’s reluctant to answer, “just a few…”

“Iris…” he starts, and she sighs.

“Okay, five. Plus one girl. And what do you mean, ‘dragged you along,’ mister—you seem to be enjoying yourself.”

_Only because I’m with you,_ he wants to say, but instead he frowns sort of softly and sadly and says “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, silly,” she laughs, lightly punching his shoulder, “but I wanted to. What kind of prom would it be without my favorite little nerd here to experience it with me?”

And there’s that warmth spreading inside him again, that unequivocal love, and along with it the urge to tell her everything, to be open and honest and just _fucking tell her already_ , and when she flashes him another one of her blinding smiles he decides that fuck it, he’s going to, that this is the perfect moment.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, someone taps Iris on the shoulder, and when he sees who it is, this guy that he knows Iris has been crushing over for a long time now, his heart sinks. 

“May I have this dance?” the guy—John, he thinks— asks her, and Iris shoots him a conflicted look, starts to tell him that sorry, she can’t right now, even though Barry can tell that she really wants to. He cuts her off, tells her that it’s okay, really, that he needs a break from all the dancing anyway, and when Iris nearly bounces up and down in excitement he even manages to give her a wink and a thumbs up before walking away.

_Next time_ , he tells himself, _I’ll tell her next time_ , trying not to think about what exactly “next time” means. He wonders when he started lying to himself, too.

 

 

He’s twenty-one, and he’s drunk for the first time—well, legally, at least. Iris insisted on coming up to visit him, even though they’re both in college and both in the middle of exams, for his 21st-birthday-weekend-extravanga…which essentially consists of a lot of alcohol, Netflix, all-nighters sitting up and talking about the universe together, and Iris’s famous double-chocolate chip brownies.

He has some sort-of-friends in college, sure, but no one that compares to Iris, and he can’t imagine spending his birthday weekend any other way, or with anyone else.

It’s his junior year, so he’s got a shoddy little off-campus apartment that he’s staying at, and even though the ceiling leaks and the paint is peeling from the walls and the heater doesn’t really work right and it’s somehow always dark and gloomy and dimly lit on the inside, even during the day, the second Iris steps through the door it’s like the place is full of light, like everything is suddenly somehow so much brighter, so much warmer, so much more like home.

They’re watching a documentary on the physics of space travel, or something—Iris lets Barry pick for once, since it _is_ his birthday, but she’s starting to regret it—and passing the bottle of wine back and forth in between bites of brownies, catching up and talking about nothing in particular and everything all at once.

At some point the clock reads four in the morning, and they’re both still super tipsy—and, much to Barry’s detriment, Iris is a really affectionate drunk. Because she’s been super-touchy all night, and now she’s practically draped on top of him on the couch and she can’t stop giggling, and his head might be swimming but that doesn’t dull the feeling that he’s still very much in love with her, and her lips are wet and stained cherry-red and he very much wants to kiss her.

He’s also not exactly thinking straight, and the alcohol might be blurring his better judgment, so when Iris squirms so that she’s looking up at him, head almost in his lap, and tells him to tell her a secret, his usual barriers are down and after a few minutes of careful consideration and staring off into the distance, he slurs the words “I’m in love with you, Iris West,” letting his eyes drift closed as he says it.

He counts to three before he opens them again, and when he does he looks down at her, nervous of what she might say, but her eyes are closed and her face is peaceful and she’s passed out, already deeply asleep right on top of him.

He can feel his legs already starting to go numb, feel the pinpricks in his feet, but he doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t dare shift an inch. He’s somehow more comfortable now than he’s ever been in this dingy little apartment, and within seconds, he’s asleep too, with a smile on his face.

 

 

He’s twenty-four—actually, he supposes must be twenty-five now, must’ve missed that birthday— and he’s just woken up from an apparently nine-month coma. Everything is happening so fast, and he’s being bombarded with all this new information, and he’s only really catching certain words and phrases of what Dr. Wells is saying to him— _‘coma…nine months…lighting…particle accelerator…Detective West and his daughter…yes, Iris…came to visit you quite often…’_ and of course that’s what sticks, Joe and Iris, and it hits him that he must have missed out on nearly a year with them.

He goes to the house first, but no one is home, and so he heads straight for Jitters, holding his breath all the way and crossing his fingers that she’ll be there. And she is—he sees her as he’s walking through the door, and she’s just as perfect as she was nine months ago, although to him it feels like yesterday. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that he almost died, that all things considered he probably _should_ have died, and he realizes that he can’t let that happen before he tells her how he really feels.

She’s pouring coffee when she looks up and sees him, and it’s like everything is moving in slow motion as her eyes go wide and her hands come up to cover her mouth and she looks like she’s about to cry, and then she’s running into his arms and he’s so happy to see her that her feet actually leave the ground when he catches her, hugging her tight. It’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

_“I watched you die, Barry. Your heart kept stopping,”_ she says, out of breath, and it’s only then that Barry realizes the weight of everything that’s happened and what it must’ve been like for her, for Joe. He places her hand over his heart, reassures her that it’s still beating, and when she comments that it feels really fast, he wants to tell her that it’s because of her touch, because she’s here with him, because that’s the effect that she has on him.

He nearly does, he’s so close to telling her everything, to making sure that he doesn’t miss another chance to tell her that he loves her, and then someone trips behind him, and the world is moving in slow motion again—this time literally—and two seconds later (that seem to drag on far longer) the world returns to normal speed. He blinks, and the moment is over.

Before he can say anything, she’s telling him that she just needs to grab her coat and then they’ll go see her dad, and just like that he’s missed his window. He resolves to tell her later, tells himself over and over that this time he won’t be afraid, that this time he’ll follow through.

Later, when he sees her kissing Eddie, when he sees the look on Iris’s face as she’s looking into Eddie’s eyes, when he feels like the world is crashing down around him, he knows that this time, he’s really run out of time.

 

 

He’s twenty-five, he’s just come face-to-face with the man who murdered his mother, his father is sitting in jail still because he wasn’t quick enough, Iris is moving in with Eddie, and he’s falling apart.

He doesn’t even have to think about where he’s going after he leaves the prison where his dad is still stuck (he tries and fails to block out the malicious little voice in his head that continues to insist _‘Because of me’_ ), his feet just carry him there, and within seconds he’s standing in front of the West house— _his_ home.

Of course when he’s coming apart at the seams, his body would naturally take him to the one person who’s always known how to make him feel whole again.

She’s just finishing up decorating the tree, and she’s practically radiant when she grins at him. She looks so beautiful—she _always_ looks so beautiful to him—and when she asks him what’s wrong he feels the world come to a stop.

This time he doesn’t think, just acts, because he’s feeling overwhelmed and impulsive and he just needs to feel her touch, needs to be able to hug her without restraint this one last time before he ruins everything.

She rubs her hands up and down his back as their arms are around each other, and he recognizes that she’s consoling him, because she can probably feel that he’s shaking and knows just how to calm him down, how to bring him back—always has.

He can think of a million reasons why now is not the right time to tell her—he’s not really in the right state of mind, she’s with Eddie, she’s going to be _living_ with Eddie, he’s already missed whatever chance he might’ve had, his life is already complicated enough, he can’t bear to lose her friendship—but he tells her. He finally tells her.

He buries his face in her hair, squeezes his eyes shut, maybe holds onto her a little too tight, and dives.

_“I love you, Iris.”_

And it feels like a huge weight is lifting from his shoulders, this secret he’s kept in for so long, those four words that he’s wanted to tell her hundreds and thousands of times before and that he’s dreamt up a million different scenarios of how and when he would finally say them, the feelings he’s kept bottled in to the point where at times he thought he might explode.

He’s said ‘I love you’ before, he knows that, but never like this. She doesn’t get it at first, thinks he’s just being affectionate, just being a friend— he can tell by her response.

It’s not enough, of course it’s not—there will never be enough words to explain exactly how he feels about her, how deeply fucking in love he is with her. But he has to try, because he’s started down this road now and there’s no turning back, and he’s done being afraid.

When he pulls away from their embrace, he can already feel the warmth draining from his skin, the emptiness in his arms where she just seemed to _fit_. And then he tells her how he really loves her, the way he’s always loved her, and he watches as her face falls, at the sheer confusion and shock and distress that registers there and the downturn of her lips, and he reads the question in her eyes— _‘Why now?’_

He tries to explain it as best as he can, even though he’s not sure there really is an adequate explanation—he just knows that this is one thing he can’t keep from her any longer, one thing he won’t let fear control anymore. Then he notices that she’s crying, and he watches as a tear steals its way down her cheek.

He’s always hated seeing Iris cry—when she lost her mother’s ring on their fifth grade fieldtrip, he’d nearly missed the bus back home because he was so intent on scouring the entire zoo until he found it, so determined see her smile again. When Iris cries, he wonders how it’s possible for anyone else in the world to be smiling.

The fact that he’s the reason for her tears right now is like another punch in the gut.

So he finishes his confession with an _‘I’m sorry,’_ because it feels appropriate, because now he’s gone and messed up everything, and he’s made her cry, and she gives that little, almost imperceptible shake of her head and it’s like someone has reached in and ripped his heart out of his chest. Because what else did he expect?

He’s been preparing himself for this moment for nearly all his life, and yet somehow it still hurts more than he ever imagined anything could.

Later that night, he approaches her and Eddie, and _God,_ it’s hard to even look her in the eyes, to meet her careful, guarded gaze, without feeling like all the air has been sucked from his lungs again.

But even though his heart is breaking, even though he would give anything to be in Eddie’s position right now, to be where he’s sitting, even though it’s like he’s ripping himself apart as he says it, he forces himself to look them in the eyes and tell them that he’s really happy for them. And then he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, makes it a point to sound sincere.

And he is sincere, because Eddie’s not a bad guy, and he doesn’t have any right to hold a grudge, and all he really wants is for Iris to be happy. At the same time, he still needs her in his life—he knows he can’t lose her, not completely, not now, not ever.

 

 

It’s been days, and Iris is still reeling from Barry’s confession. Still struggling to wrap her mind around it, and looking back on all the  moments they’ve shared—and there’s been a lot—, hyper-analyzing them, trying to see all the clues and hints that she somehow missed along the way.

And God, it really was kind of obvious, now that she thinks about it. She wonders why she never saw it—but now that she has, she can’t un-see it, and it’s weird—it’s like suddenly she’s seeing her best friend, _her Barry_ , in a whole different light, one that she’s never even seriously considered before—or at least, she thinks she hasn’t—and it’s…it’s surprisingly not weird or uncomfortable. It’s intriguing, and confusing, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

It’s like now, she’s hyper-aware of things that she wasn’t before, like every touch, every hug that lingers just a little too long, every playful shove and shoulder rub and arm casually looped around his. The way he smiles when she walks into a room, and the way that _she_ can’t help but smile whenever she sees him—it’s like some involuntary response, something she’s not even aware that she’s been doing until now, but the fact is that seeing Barry Allen makes her smile even on her worst days, like some reflex reaction, some pre-programmed muscle movement hard-wired into her brain.

She feels so warm and so whole when she’s with him, so ready to tackle the world together like they always have, and there’s this fuzzy feeling that bubbles up in her chest when he laughs, this safety and familiarity she feels when she’s in his arms.

It’s unfamiliar and familiar all at the same time, and she knows she loves Eddie on some level but she’s never quite thought about him like this, never quite felt this way about him—whatever this is.

There’s something there, there’s definitely something, and the next time that Barry’s fingers brush against hers and her heart speeds up and her breath gets caught in her throat, she knows that something has taken hold of her heart, has planted a seed and started to grow there, and that maybe Barry’s love wasn’t quite as one-sided as they both thought.

And maybe it’s wrong, maybe _she’s_ wrong, but the truth is…there’s a part of her that really wants to see it bloom.


End file.
